O Welcome Death
by TruthxLiesxMagic
Summary: Perhaps I am Rosaline, and you, Erik, you are Romeo, awaiting your true Juliet, over whom you would battle said girl's Paris. EC, some CR. Very dark with a side order of angst, rated for safety.


**O Welcome Death**

Summary: Perhaps I am Rosalie, and you, Erik, you are Romeo, awaiting your true Juliet, over whom you would battle said girl's Paris. EC, some CR. Very dark with a side order of angst, rated for safety.

A/N: This is my first phanfic, so Christine's character is probably a little out, but I started this and her character just flowed so I was loath to go against that. I think this is probably the darkest thing I've ever written, with the exception of Love Lies Bleeding. I seem to have a thing for making characters make ultra-angsty decisions. Also, I'm debating whether or not to do another chapter detailing Erik's reaction to all this.

E/C phans… I apologize profusely for the R/C in this – I hate the fop too – but it was necessary to have at least a little in for Christine's decision to make sense. I tried to keep it to a minimum though.

* * *

Erik,

I am dying.

I have never been surer of anything in my entire life. This choice, this… this endless _torment_ of decisions – no, just the one decision – is literally tearing my soul in two. And a soul is supposed to remain whole, is it not? Whoever heard of such a thing, of that purest emotion tearing something supposed to be equally pure in half?

It is probably my own fault. For neither my love nor my soul is pure. I can see – oh, see so _clearly_, as if I was viewing my life from above – what I should be doing, the path I should not hesitate to take, nor so much as have second thoughts about. The road to happiness leads to a wedding with Raoul, with myself becoming Christine de Chagny.

So why is it that I am awake at this ungodly hour, staring at my mirror, wondering if you are behind it, staring back?

I know why. Oh, I _know_ why.

If I confessed any of this to Raoul – which I could never, would never do – he would doubtless urge me to blame you for these conflicted feelings. He would give me that indulgent smile reserved for when he believes I am acting like a child trying to stand on her own two feet but needing guidance even so, and he would speak reassuring words into my ear, whisper me a tale that would convince me to cut ties with you, my Angel.

Yes, I still call you that, if only in the privacy of my own thoughts. Despite all I have seen, despite all you have done, Erik, you will always be my Angel of Music, the one that comforted a young orphan girl, taking her under your wing and, in the manner a gardener may well tend a hothouse flower, brought forth an unparalleled specimen.

Oh, Christine, _do_ stop comparing yourself to inanimate objects. You are no flower, no hothouse lily, and no angel. You are just a little orphan girl needing someone to set her on the right path because she is too foolish to make the choice herself.

But no, I do not believe I am that little girl anymore. Erik, if nothing else, you made me grow up. You taught me that I could not live in a daydream of sunshine and rainbows – and even if the lesson itself was harsh, the point still stands.

So, are you proud of me now, Angel? I have woken up, and I am making my decision. Even if it is killing me, you and Raoul will have an answer before dawn's light. Yes, it _is_ difficult, thank you for asking, but in all honesty, I do this for myself as much as you.

…I must stop this. I must stop conversing with you in my mind. It was that song, the one we sang as you lured me towards that lesson, towards that waking nightmare. The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind. Only you are not, and I must stop thinking like that if my mind is to be clear enough for me to make this decision properly. And I shall ignore anything I may or may not glimpse in the mirror, like I shall ignore any voices from beyond these walls, no matter whether they come from behind the door or… elsewhere.

But first, I shall light another candle. Light is a wonderful thing, so pure, so revealing, yet sometimes a thing that one would rather not have. I cannot help but wonder… if there had been no light under the Opera House, would my decision be easier or harder to make? But I digress, yet again. Procrastinating the unavoidable. Something I generally face things, but whom in their right mind would want to face that which I do now?

All right, I won't put it off a moment longer.

Now, let me see… I know I should probably let my heart lead me, but for some reason – and I can't deny a giggle escapes me at the thought, and I wonder briefly if some of my sanity escapes with it – I want to draw up a list of attributes for my two suitors, as Meg and I once did as children planning our little-girl weddings with big white dresses and dashing, perfect husbands from our daydreams. Well, why on Earth not? I am living in a world turned on its head, where insanity seems to rule the day – so why not jump on the boat (excusing the pun) and join in?

Raoul… dear, sweet Raoul. Oh, he makes me feel so safe, so secure and comforted, so… so like a childhood sweetheart should make his betrothed feel. He is attentive, trustworthy, jealous – can I count that as a good thing? I suppose so; it is my list, and it means he is less likely to be unfaithful – and even possessive to an extent (again, a good thing or bad? I shall count it as both). But… I love him, I swear I do, but I cannot help but question the nature of that love. Am I but a trophy that he has won in this duel not of love, but of possession, of desire? Is this love we have but a crude, childish mimicry of what it should be? Perhaps I am simply being picky and ungrateful, but part of me does not feel quite… whole when I am with him. Part of me yearns for something I cannot accurately describe in words; it is simply an almost carnal desire for passion, for danger and excitement that he has never given me.

Stop it with the metaphors, Christine. Keep it simple, clean-cut. It'll be easier that way.

Erik… my Angel of Music, who it would seem, is no angel at all but simply a mere mortal who has lied to me for ten years! You were my guardian angel, my light in an otherwise dark and uncaring world. Yes, I had Madame Giry as a mother figure, but it was you, Erik, who told that little girl stories when she could not sleep, sang to her when nightmares plagued her, and taught her many things. I can sing better than ever I dreamed, and it is thanks to you. Yet you are more than a teacher, more than a guide. True, you are not the angel that once I believed you were, but the times that have come before, when you were my one friend, who I could depend on to bring a smile to my face with a song, a beautiful new melody, or just a shred of comfort… does that make it all right? I wish I knew, wish I was wise enough to glean an answer from this puzzle, but it is beyond me. Yet in a way you remind me of the forbidden fruit – blame yourself for that, _you_ were the one who reminded me to say my prayers after all – so near yet so far out of reach. So tempting, yet to give in to temptation would mean to be cast out, to never again see the beauty of Eden. But to be cast out would mean building a new life with my love.

My head aches with it all. Why is life so confusing? I feel like Juliet, except I do not know who is my Romeo, and who is Paris. But then, following that line of thought, who would be Rosalie? Perhaps I am Rosalie, and you, Erik, you are Romeo, awaiting your true Juliet, over whom you would battle said girl's Paris.

I wonder why I immediately place you as Romeo? No, I do not see this as digressing – it seems a valid point. Now that I think about it, my situation does fit rather neatly over Romeo and Juliet. So if I am Juliet, and, going with my first instinct, you are Romeo… I have to admit, it is strangely coincidental. For Paris is handsome, self-absorbed, and wealthy, who hunts Juliet because of… well, several reasons that I don't think apply to Raoul… but neither do they apply to you. And what of Romeo's feelings? He loved Juliet for her beauty, but it never says anything in the play about Juliet's singing capabilities, or how they affected her suitors.

I should stop this. I am not Juliet Capulet, I am Christine Daae… and I have no idea what to do.

You called me a 'flattering child' before you revealed yourself. It's true enough, sadly – I do feel like a child in many ways, so naïve to the ways of the world and the turmoils it inflicts, but in others I feel as if I left childhood behind as a seven-year-old girl arriving on the steps of the Opera Populaire for the first time. So I believe it's safe to say the little girl isn't the one comparing the two men she loves to fictional characters.

Yes, I love you both, that is why all this is so painful. I love Raoul because he represents the safety, the stability, and the comfort that I yearn for… but I also love you, Erik, because that danger, that anger that flashed in your eyes, that pain and oh, that face, they all combine, drawing me in, and I am powerless to stop it because there is something so alluring about it all, as if you are the flame and I the moth. But I think, out of the two, you are the one who would be most accepting of my choice, whatever it may be. You're just a gentleman that way, and you always values my opinion, no matter what it is on. Raoul, however…

The image of that smile, that amused and tolerating expression on his face when I told him about my Angel is burned into my memory forever. I told him my most precious secret and he laughed at it, as if I was making it all up.

I may love him, but I can never forgive him for that, in the same way I'll never be able to forgive you for lying to me. I can understand why both of you did those things, but the fact remains you shouldn't have. If there is one thing I have come to loathe in this world lately, it is being taken for a fool. But don't worry, Angel, I still love you.

I… there really is no deciding, is there? No answer to the puzzle. I love you both equally, but the nature of that love could not differ more. The child in my hearts loves Raoul, and the woman who is the new diva, the woman who was enraptured by her Angel longs for Erik. When I am with one I miss the other. No matter who I choose, I will regret my choice. Perhaps not for a while – it may take years. But I know, as surely as the grass is green, that one day I will wake up, look at my husband, and wish I was with my other love.

You both deserve love, but I think only Raoul really expects it. There is something about you – perhaps it is the grief in your eyes – that speaks volumes about you. You hope that I will love you, but expect me to choose Raoul.

I can choose neither but you will force me to, and eventually it will kill me – and maybe even the two of you. No, that's selfish and untrue. I cannot be _that_ important to them, surely? But perhaps I owe it to you to prevent that pain, or, rather, get it over with quickly. After all, if I am not here, I cannot be made to choose. A dead girl never wed.

Those thoughts of suicide should shock me, but for some reason they just seem like very good ideas right now. Logical, even. I think I'm hurting you both simply by existing, so if I am not here to cause pain, you can both move on. You especially Erik need to see reason, realise that this obsession is not right, that really I'm not worth it.

I truly am Rosalie.

_O welcome Death, quoth she, end of unhappiness,  
That also art beginning of assured happiness,  
Fear not to dart me now, thy stripe no longer stay,  
Prolong no longer now my life, I hate this long delay;  
For straight my parting sprite, out of this carcase fled,  
At ease shall find my Romeo's sprite among so many dead.  
And thou my loving lord, Romeo, my trusty fere,_

Perhaps in death, the true identity of my Romeo will be revealed to me.

_If knowledge yet do rest in thee, if thou these words dost hear,  
Receive thou her whom thou didst love so lawfully,  
That caused, alas, thy violent death, although unwillingly;  
And therefore willingly offers to thee her ghost,  
To th'end that no wight else but thou might have just cause to boast  
Th'enjoying of my love, which aye I have reserved  
Free from the rest, bound unto thee, that hast it well deserved;  
That so our parted sprites from light that we see here,  
In place of endless light and bliss may ever live y-fere._

The idea is well and truly fixed in my mind now. I stand abruptly, looking over my room with a fresh gaze, my mind already planning the best way to do the deed. I do not wish to make a show, or to attract attention. I do not want people to mourn me more than they should – that is the whole idea of this. But when I do not appear for rehearsals tomorrow, eventually they will start searching, and no matter where I lay myself down to die, they will find my body, and it will be exclaimed over, and the meaning will be twisted.

I do not want that.

Then it comes to me, in a moment of clarity so clear I wonder why I didn't think of it immediately. Of course. It has a certain attraction to it, and it makes sense, given the circumstances, that my deathbed should be what you obviously intended to be our marriage bed. What was the line? _'Come cords, come Nurse, I'll to my wedding bed; And Death not Romeo shall take my maiden head'_. How appropriate

Now all that remains is how to do it. I would rather take poison, for blood would ruin everything I touched, and Erik, you obviously worked so hard on that room to please me.

I stop and laugh at the absurdity of that thought. I intend to go down into the bowels of the Opera Populaire and kill myself, and yet I worry about making a mess. Christine, Christine, you are one of a kind. But being unique doesn't solve the problem at hand, and neither will laughing, so I stop with a little difficulty.

Unbidden, an image comes to the fore of my mind. You stood in the Red Death costume (I seem to have Death on the brain) brandishing a sword.

A sword… Granted, it would be harder to use than a dagger, but if nothing else is available… I wonder, though, does you even keep it down there? And if so, whereabouts? What if you are down there when I descend? Doubtless you will try and talk me out of my plan if you are– will reason, and give me that look, and I will be convinced to choose, and that cannot happen. But if this plan means that I will speak to nobody about my intentions, then perhaps I should leave behind a note… like you…

Why do my thoughts turn to you more than Raoul, I wonder, in my final hour? I love you both equally, so theoretically you both should hold an equal place in my thoughts. Perhaps I think of you, Erik simply because I intend to commit suicide in your home.

But to get back to the point. I think if I record everything that has gone through my mind during this internal debate, and leave it on my dressing table with a will… yes, that would work. And who knows? Perhaps I will be able to spend all eternity near both my loves, for I cannot see you leaving or Raoul ceasing to be the Opera's patron any time soon. I think if I left an extra note for you, you would accept my final wish. I don't care what you do with my body, really, so long as I am buried either below or near the Opera House. And then we will all be free, and this monstrous fight will be over.

We can all be at peace.

I will do it immediately after I have finished the necessary records. No time like the present, and I fear my courage will ebb if I delay. I need to prevent that eventuality, because for some reason unbeknownst to me, I feel a certain eagerness to descend to sweet music's throne.

Erik, though I cannot deny I love Raoul, you have been the hand that has guided me, has taught me. I love you. Truly, I do.

Love,

Christine


End file.
